


Away From Tortuga

by Stella_Omega



Category: Baroque Cycle - Neal Stephenson, No Fandom, Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-20
Updated: 2007-12-26
Packaged: 2018-10-17 03:00:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10585047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stella_Omega/pseuds/Stella_Omega





	1. Chapter 1

My contribution to [](http://viva-gloria.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://viva-gloria.livejournal.com/)**viva_gloria** 's Valentine's Rose arrives in this Yule season-- proving that True Luv is true the year 'round! West we roam, into the blue Carribee.  
  


 

One could say many things about the establishment named "The Faithful Bride" in Tortuga; indeed many things had been said, most of them along the lines of ‘noisome’, ‘ruinously overpriced’, ‘pisswater ale’ and the like. But the captain of the Black Pearl had his own opinion about the inn. Jack Sparrow always had a safe wall at his back when he was there, and on a day like this one, a solid wall behind him was a most welcome convenience; once he concluded his current business with Red Roger, he intended to never engage with the man again.

Jack counted out the gold reales and the silver bits warily, keeping his hand near the table’s edge and ready to go for his knife at a moments notice. He didn’t bother to hide it, either. Rog glowered and swept the payment off the table. “I’d say thankee,” Rog remarked, “but I’d ha’ liked to get this more like when we agreed to’t.”

Sparrow showed his teeth. "The payment's a week late at the very most, dear chap. ‘Twas worth waiting for, wasn’t it?”

Rog snarled and swung about on his stool, towards an extraordinarily ugly bastard. “What the fuck d’you want?” Perhaps, Jack mused, snarling was all that Rog could do.

Ugly seemed to take it in his stride, at any rate. “That bloke Shaftoe’s about.” he said.

Roger spat; “Well if’n it ain’t my lucky day. You tell the boys, right?” On Ugly’s nod, Rog added, “I’m offering ten guineas for ‘is worthless hide.” Ugly's ugly grin got wider.

“Done me out o’ a nice cargo, he done,” Rog told Jack, despite every effort on that gentleman’s part to appear completely disinterested. He didn’t care to scrag anyone, and Rog was the type to consider a non-scragging evidence of a disrespect that, as it happened, he was certainly held in, in Jack’s estimation. While Jack was trying to work out the grammatical implications of his last thought, Rog left for the front of the room where his bully-boys waited.

Jack Sparrow resumed his slouch against the wall. But he sat back up again when the door opened, and sunlight flared off a head of bright hair. There were a pair of wide shoulders as the tall man came in the door. His eyes widened- showing a flash of blue in the inn’s gloom- as an assortment of thugs set on him. He went down in a welter of fists and dust, but rose again, snarling out something Jack couldn’t hear from his vantage point. Whatever it was, it gave his assailants pause, and “that bloke Shaftoe” used it to his advantage, leaping to the attack in a way that Red Roger clearly hadn’t expected, for he would have been quicker to guard his chin. Sparrow was tempted to applaud, but not knowing which way fortune would swing, he desisted, and remained a mere spectator.

Fortune was not swinging Shaftoe’s way, it seemed, not with two men holding him and Roger punching him in the gut like that. His struggles were enough to loosen his captors’ hold, along with most of his own shirt, and suddenly two fewer opponents faced him. Jack was impressed. Quite impressed, in fact; Rog hadn’t gotten up again.

As so often happened in The Bride, the melee grew in scope. Besides Red Roger’s boys, more than one other faction was present, and reckoned it as good a time as any to begin settling their own scores. The tall man was no longer the single focus of all that violence; Shaftoe broke free -- stumbled -- and disappeared from view.

Jack soon enough spotted him again, scuttling under tables and benches t’wards the back door. This was the first time he’d seen the man up close, and he realised that he was looking at something special. He’d not thought of men in any particular way for a bit; he thought though, that he might think of this one. The rolling shoulders and sculpted arms were nice enough, and oh, dear, the limber haunches as well; Shaftoe’s face, though, stirred something in Jack. Big and square, a nose that once had been straight -- brows that were straight, and dark, in contrast to that bright hair. He had a strong jaw, and a determined chin. His eyes were bluer than any man’s eyes had the right to be. At the moment, his expression was purely feral, and betokened grim violence, but as he drew closer to the fascinated pirate he darted a look to one side, and whatever he noted there pleased him; a twist of his lips changed his face and although it was not the full, wide, sunny article, that hint of what his smile could be made Jack feel, in equal measure, a hint of what philanthropy might be. And what the rewards might be -- if one helped one’s fellow man.

*

“Hsst, friend!” Jack Shaftoe looked around at the sound. Mostly, he wanted to know where it came from in order to go another direction, if he could.

There was a hand, be-ruffled and be-ringed, beckoning him from under a table. There were a pair of legs, dressed in grubby canvas, and a really good pair of boots, and a voice was telling him that Red Roger’s merry men were waiting outside the back door as well as the front. “Up those stairs, first right, eh?” added the voice, and then, ‘Hold! Wait... now!”

Shaftoe, cursing his luck, felt that going would be a better plan, on the whole, than staying, and he scampered in the direction of the stairs.

His mad dash up and into the first door left him at a loss when he looked around, for there was no one in the room with him. There were, however, leisurely boot-treads on the stairs. Jack got ready to defend his person once more; his roundhouse was blocked and he found his wrist grasped unexpectedly, a body twisted up under his arm, a boot against one foot -- the two of them balanced for a moment and the huff of a laugh felt against his chest rather than heard. Then they were untangled and the door closed and latched.

“Right then, ready for a bit of a run?” his ally said, grinning, and swung open the casement window and vaulted out. The next footsteps Jack heard from the stairwell were fast, heavy and numerous; with barely a glance at where he was going, he followed the man onto the roof. Then there was a slide half-way down, a sudden stop as he fetched up on a lower roof ridge. He slipped and slid along its length, hopped lightly to a balcony just five feet below, clambered from that into the upper limbs of an asthmatic baobab and down its trunk, trotted across two streets, around a corner, through what could only have been a pigsty, into a door and, sweated and winded, caught up at last with the will-o-the-wisp that’d been guiding him all this time.

Not a very impressive sight, he wasn't, with that mass of black hair swinging at his back, the raggle-taggle look of him -- threadbare brocade with a bit of tarnished silver braid still clinging to it, grubby shirt and trews under that. Jack did notice that the man carried some wealth in the form of gold dental work-- also, that he was not puffing near as hard as Jack's own good self was after that gymkhana.

"Thankee, mate, you've done me a good turn there," he said.

"I've pulled you from the fire, Mr. Shaftoe, ain't I?" The fellow grinned, glintingly. "Only, you see, you're still in the fryin' pan. As it were. Red Roger's offered a 'stonishingly large purse for you. Seems you've caused him some pain and anguish, eh? Besides what you've just now accomplished, that is. He ain't goin' to be in a mood for Christian reconciliation when he wakes up."

"That will be a novelty indeed," Jack said sarcastically, "since the gent is almost always kind-hearted and generous. I've reason to know."

"He's a just man, according to his lights. Though if you were to say it's a dim light," his companion said judiciously, "I wouldn't disagree with you."

Jack rolled his eyes. "A man ferries the goods overland for a man what don't care for horses. A man is set upon by ruffians, and loses one chest out o' the load. _One_ chest. A man ought to be happy to see the other three -- 'stead of grizzling on an' on about the lost one."

"As I understand it, none of the other chests held a fortune in indigo, eh?"

"Can't help that," Jack shrugged. "Roger ain't got the philosophickal viewpoint, evidently. Myself, I'll be glad to leave this benighted little rat-turd of an island."

*

Shaftoe was getting his wind back. Jack kept his gaze neutral, but that energetic frame was damnably attractive. The man stood some few inches taller than Jack's own good self. He was lean and lithe, and well-balanced. He glared at Jack out of eyes that were not only blue, but made bluer yet by the dark lashes and tanned face. And the face was fabulous. That mouth was, Jack decided, made for it. Oh god, yes.

"I can get you out of here, Mr Shaftoe."

"And how's that?" The blue eyes narrowed.

"Forgive me, haven't yet introduced meself. Captain Jack Sparrow, of the Black Pearl. Happy to be of service." Jack sketched a bow.

"Jack Shaftoe, lately of London, at yours." Mr. Shaftoe cocked his bright head. "A ship. Where're you headed?"

"Anywhere, really. P'raps Nassau. But that ain't the problem is it? First is to get you out of Tortuga, an' I can do that."

"It's a most kind offer, Captain Sparrow," Shaftoe said. "Might a man ask why you're so charitable an' all?"

"Ooh, there's several reasons, really. I ain't much in favor of Red Roger meself, for one. An' you needn't think you're a charity case, Mr Shaftoe, I've a fare in mind."

*

"All right," said Jack, running a hand through his sweaty hair. "What's this price?"

"Why," the man said, "I've a mind to avail meself of your services. Labially, as it were."

"Pardon?" That was a new one to Jack, but he had a strong suspicion as to where this was going. There was a welter of expression on Sparrow's foreign-seeming visage; a practical calculation, a sort of thrilled apprehension towards Jack's self that he found disgusting, and a wicked mirth that tugged at him in way that was dismayingly attracting.

"Labially," Sparrow enunciated carefully, with a great deal of tongue against lips- all those "L"s. "Au bouche." His way of forming that phrase was simply obscene.

"Merde," said Jack, and spat.

Sparrow bridled; "Pas du tout!" he exclaimed. "It's a coin you have in abundance, my friend. If the rumors are correct, you ain't got none other."

"Are you entirely mad? Do I look –"

"You look like a man who's got a price on his head. You do know how much money Rog is offerin' for your ears, don't you?" As if to illustrate that very point, thumping boots passed on the other side of the thin wooden wall. Both men held their breaths. Among the voices were some that sounded far too familiar, in a bar-room-brawl sort of way.

"I heard a guinea," Jack said on the outbreath.

"Times ten, mate," Sparrow informed him. "He seems to have taken this a mite harder than one would expect, aye? One would say personal."

"Can't think why," said Jack, although he could think of several reasons why Red Roger's thwarted person might take it hard. Ten guineas on a man's head did, indeed, make a man's life precarious. And Sparrow was right, there was precious little in the way of hard currency at Jack's disposal. But dammitall, to evade the clutches of one lustful buccaneer, only to fall prey to another! "I could have found my way out without your help, mate."

"Piss off then, Mr Shaftoe, with my fond regards." Sparrow sauntered towards the door; Jack sprang to intercept him before he could fling it wide open. "Oh, no?" Sparrow said in extravagant surprise. "Why ever not, an' you so resourceful an' all? "

"You've got us holed up in the middle of town, damn you!" Jack snapped. "We should have gone further out. I'd have had a chance to move from there."

Sparrow barked out a laugh. "Oh, Mr Shaftoe, and how, might I ask, did you think we'd get further out of town-- with all that coin offered for your apprehension?"

"Dunno why you'd want that from me." Jack tried another tack; "It ain't anything I'm skilled at, after all."

"A man can learn, a man can learn," Sparrow pointed out.

"I don't intend to," Jack said thinly. The pirate grinned.

"Even knowing that I ain't going to get the best sucking of my life from you -- I'm still willing to save your skin. Philanthropy, that's what it is."

Jack regarded him sourly. "All right," he said at last. "You get me out of here and I'll do it."

"Will you now. That’s lovely." Sparrow cocked his head, with what Jack really wanted to call a smirk playing in the corners of his mouth.

"Aye, but don't expect..."

"Heaven forfend," Jack Sparrow assured the man. "Would you like to get it over with now?" He reached for the buttons of his trowsers.

Shaftoe held up a hand, scowling. "On board your ship," he said firmly. "An' not a moment before."

"We've plenty of time just now, before I can put a plan in action."

"How do I know you won't turn me over to Rog, once you've had your fun?" demanded Shaftoe.

"Ooh, Mr Shaftoe, who's to say when the fun's over? Certainly not I." Shaftoe glared. “Besides,” Sparrow added, “I ain’t no friend to Rog meself. But have it your way, and wait till you’re on board the Pearl."

"We have an accord," Jack conceded. "So, what's your plan?"

"Can't dress you as a girl." Sparrow looked him over critically. "A wench of your build would be... remarkable." He seemed disappointed.

"You must have some other plans, Captain. You seemed so sure just a while ago," Jack remarked. Sparrow raised an eyebrow.

"You may laugh if you wish, mate -- it's your neck they're wanting. Not only your neck, you know. Some very specific bodily parts have been mentioned."

Jack had to admit the point. It was soberin', really, what straits a man could come to.

Sparrow swayed when he paced, and his hands fluttered. Jack watched the spectacle sourly. "Can't you think to yourself?" he asked at last. Sparrow wheeled about on the turn, pouting.

"Can't you think for yourself?" he inquired. "Evidently not, or you'd not have gotten yourself in this trouble -- ah, I have it!'

Whatever the man had, Jack wanted to say, could be contagious and could be loathsome. But he bit back his retort, and merely inclined his head quizzically.

"You just stay here, and wait. Might be one glass, might be two. But you'll hear a cart stopping outside, and you'll hear me voice, savvy? Get out the door and under th' canvas quick as ye can, and we'll be down to the water sweet as your Aunt Fanny."

Jack watched the man sashay t'wards the door with a mixture of relief at the cessation of his provocation for a while, and dread in being abandoned -- the whole of which he carefully kept away from his face. But his irritation flashed to the fore once more, when Sparrow paused and said; "You needn't think I'll leave you behind, mate -- you've got something I quite want," and slipped out the door with a wink, leaving Jack with clenched fists.

Jack selected the most solid-seeming of the walls to rest his back against and sank to the floor to while away the time with the accustomed amusement of his memories. Given the taunting he'd been subject to, it was only natural that his thoughts should stray to the women of his acquaintance. Oh, the sweet laughs, soft skin, and welcoming bodies of Gwenny, Bess, and all the rest... Damme, but it'd been a long time since he'd the coin to lure a lass into his arms! A warm red mouth opening, inviting...

"Ah, that's it, sweetheart," thought Jack, and his hand went to his trews to cup himself. Through the fabric, his hand could be a light and soft one, urging him to hardness. "Good girl, good girl," he murmured, and spread his legs for his spectral concubine. His tapping finger evoked a teasing tongue, dainty about his cockhead; he fumbled one-handedly with his plackets whilst he spit into the other, and ran a slick palm over and around himself. He imagined her sucking cheeks, her eyes flashing up at him, her rosy lips wrapped about him. “That’s fine, darlin’...” It took a lot of spit to keep his hand slippery. His succubus didn’t care to linger; she sped him swift to his end.

It was pleasant enough, but not a fraction of the real thing. He scuffed his spending into the dust and closed his eyes. It was well enough to await the rumbling wheels of the supplies wagon, the scuffle and hurry at the dock, where the two men would tumble into the dinghy and pull away from shore with all possible speed before Jack Shaftoe's bright hair could be spied out by his enemies.

*  


Jack Sparrow smiled back at the scowling fellow sweating at the oars. He felt he’d won more than a few victories in plundering this particular treasure; viz., the frustration of Red Rog, a man who deserved to be dotted one -- or two, or more if it were possible -- being item number one; the recruitment of a husky deck hand (always supposing Jack Shaftoe could hold his end up in the sheets) for number two, and ooh, a plaything the likes of which Jack hadn’t found often, being the very same husky, graceful, bright-visaged, sharp-tongued Mr Shaftoe. The question here being, of course, whether Mr Shaftoe would care to be the plaything of a Pirate Captain. Jack Sparrow, however, had a certain amount of faith in his powers of persuasion; and at any rate, he was nearly certain of one innings in the sheets -- the other sheets.


	2. Chapter 2

Jack Shaftoe rowed in bitter silence. That smug little fop lolling in the bows must have planned all this, in his estimation. Perhaps he’d been outright lying about the extent of Rog’s anger, eh? If that should prove to be so, Jack could come up with a number of inventive revenges to be gotten in return for this... this abduction and his prospective -- damnation! humiliation and subjugation, the likes of which Jack had always managed to escape up till now.

The pirate’s gaze lifted from Jack suddenly, to whatever was behind him; deducing that the coracle had neared his ship, the damned “Pearl” or whatever she was styled, Jack glanced behind himself. His eyes widened; the black bulk rising up and looming over the surface of the water was as menacing as a pirate ship ought to be. Unexpectedly so, really. If this popinjay were truly the captain -- well, evidently that was the truth, since the words from the railing gave no lie. He blinked and caught at the painter that came tumbling down at his companion's shout. Captain Sparrow ran easily up the rope ladder; Jack did his best to come aboard as smartly.

“Mr Staines, we have a tyro seaman taking a berth.” Jack Shaftoe got ready to put his fist to work, should Sparrow leer, and say anything about him working his passage. But Sparrow did nothing of the sort, and Jack felt an odd deflation. Not that he was in any state to be honest with himself, but in Sparrow’s place, he felt, he would have found a bit of fun in it.

“No, Isaiah, the lads still have one more night,” Sparrow was saying now; “Mr Shaftoe here wanted to come aboard a bit early, to acquaint himself personally with the ship and his... position aboard.” Ooh, he couldn’t resist after all, the little bastard. Sparrow’s black eyes gave him look for look, and a warning that he was captain here. Jack scowled and turned on one heel to run his gaze ‘cross the pitchy deck.

*

Jack let not the least flicker of amusement cross his face whilst talking to poor old Staines. Nor did he make it too obvious that the angry set of those broad shoulders -- clad in the remnants of a shirt damaged by his recent brawl -- nor the sweet sweep of an arse that was set atop disgracefully long legs -- were the objects of his most admiring scrutiny. When Isaiah shuffled off t’wards the foredeck, though, there was no further need to dissemble. He was almost positive that his welcoming smile did not constitute a leer; but Shaftoe seemed to disagree, his scowling face becoming yet more ferocious.

“Reconsidering your bargain, Shaftoe?” Jack enquired.

“You really mean to hold me to it, you --” Shaftoe bit the last word off, to Jack’s disappointment. He didn’t want to quench the fellow’s bright fire, oh no. Where would be the fun in that?

“I most certainly do, friend. Of course, you can always go back -- it’s an easy swim to shore from here, and you’ll no doubt be able to handle yourself with distinction back in the alleys where, pray remember, you are looked for. Still,” Jack tilted his head and ran a considering gaze up and down his furious companion; “I b’lieve you could handle me with similar... distinction, an’ that without getting so drenched an’ all.” Did the man have no idea of how blue that flush made his eyes? Or how enticing that angrily pulsing vein in his neck was? “Come along to my quarters an’ we’ll discuss this business.” He turned after the first step to see the man standing pat, and looking mutinous. “Come along, Mr Shaftoe,” he said, cold and flat, “or go along back to shore.”

*

The afternoon sun streamed into the great cabin, and Jack Shaftoe had to admit, it was a more comfortable room than he’d visited in quite a while. Captain Sparrow dropped into a chair, and threw his booted legs up onto the desk, the very picture of smug authority -- the kind of authority, Jack reflected irritably, that he hated the most. He found himself about to clasp his hands behind his back and folded them across his chest instead. The fellow offered a smile that Jack was not about to admit to be engaging, and it widened when Jack glared at him. “Oh, do sit down and have a drink.”

“Why?” Jack asked suspiciously.

“Why, Mr Shaftoe?“ Sparrow touched one finger to his lower lip (which, however plump it might be, did not attract Jack’s attention in the least). “Why, because it’s a pleasant occupation of a noon, I s’pose. Convivial, an' that.”

Jack snorted, couldn’t stop himself. Convivial indeed! What was convivial about a man contracted to commit an act that went against his most basic sensibilities, eh? Upon the person of so disreputable a popinjay, at that?

“Forget your cares, mate,” Sparrow murmured, shoving a mug across the table. Jack scowled ungraciously, and wrapped his hands around the beaker. “Tell me, had you any plans beyond the immediate future?”

“Why?” Jack knew he was repeating himself, but how could he not, when every thing this man said hinted at lascivious activities?

“Why, Mr Shaftoe?” Damn him and his mocking grin. “I was impressed with your fighting spirit back there. I c'n always use another hand on this ship what ain’t afraid of a little blood. How are you in the rigging, any ‘sperience?”

“And who says I’d sign up with you, mate?” said Jack. “where’re you lot going that’s so good?”

“Away from Tortuga, for a start,” Sparrow snapped.

“Aye, and we’ve agreed on a fare,” Jack pointed out, and flushed hotly.

“We’ll be puttin’ in at Saint Marc, less’n two days run. Your fare’ll get you that far, out o’ the goodness of my heart, but Rog can be there in two days same as we can. And you don’t really think I’ll let you suck my yard all the way to Nassau, d’you?”

Jack opened his mouth to argue the point -- and shut it again. As if he’d care to repeat such a thing! Sparrow tugged on the cup; Jack realised it was empty and relinquished it. “Why don’t I just sign up on your crew then?” he said, and drank half the returned mug in two swallows. Sparrow’s eyes, when Jack put the mug down, were hungry, and directed towards his throat. That was a bit of a relief. The fellow simply stared him out of countenance, with his dark gaze. Painted like a whore, too; why on earth would a man want to decorate himself so? A bit of gilding the lily, really, when those eyes were fine enough for any lady -- Jack came to himself with a start.

Sparrow blinked. “Ain't much profit in a man that drowns the goods, is there.”

Jack grinned; “I didn’t scuttle the indigo, Captain.”

“You didn’t, eh? Then what would possess you to tell such a story?”

“Indeed.” Captain Sparrow was a quick one: Jack found himself giving back smile for complicit smile.

“Well, Mr. Shaftoe,” the captain said, and raised his mug in salute.

“How’s that for a fare, d’you think?”

“It may well serve... Aye, if -- if, mind you -- it’s of the quality Roger was bemoanin', the Pearl would carry you an' that little hoard from Saint Marc to Nassau.”

*

“Well then!” Shaftoe sat back.

"May I point out, my friend, that you ain't yet in Saint Marc?" Jack Sparrow smoothed down his moustaches, while the big blond man took in the import of that. And Jack mourned the loss of that wide grin.

"Going to renege on your agreement?" he asked icily. "P'raps Roger was right about you after all."

Shaftoe lost more of his grin. "Not at all!" he slurred -- the rum must have finally told on him -- "I'm just endeavorin', Captain Sparrow, to substitute goods of equal value. Same price, different coin."

"It's quite possible, Mr. Shaftoe," Jack murmured, "that I've a higher opinion of your value than you have, eh?" He wondered if the man would work that one out, and how he'd take it once he did. Jack Sparrow could feel the imprint of many a slap administered by a lady's hand in return for similar compliments.

"The value of my virtue?" Shaftoe snorted, but didn't seem compelled to raise his hand.

"Oh, no," Jack smirked. "You know quite well it ain't nothin' virtuous." Shaftoe growled and rolled his eyes.

“Honestly, mate, I’ll not force you, nor anyone.” Sparrow however, felt very, very close to that point. The longer he spent in Jack Shaftoe’s presence, the brighter the man shone, and it wasn’t only the rum. He simply pervaded the room; his fierce blue eyes, that humorous intelligent face, with its flickering expressions -- now that he’d let down his guard -- and the animal warmth of his body. The sun was westering; this ridiculous negotiation had been going on an awf’ly long time.

“P’raps... ” he said. Shaftoe leaned into the pause, all unconscious, his eyes wider by that little trifle. “P'raps, it ain’t that you don’t wish to do this, so much, as that you don’t know how, eh? P’raps you need an example? A little lessoning?” And he opened his mouth and ran his tongue over his lips, lower and upper. “A demonstration?”

Shaftoe’s eyes went darkest possible blue and he swallowed. “It’s entirely possible that a demonstration would... ease my mind, yes,” he said faintly. Jack Sparrow stood up and walked around the table; Shaftoe gazed up at him like a startled lion.

“Well then, Jack,” said Jack, “I sh’ll show you the way to please a man.” He reached for Shaftoe’s hand and pulled him up. Would he kiss? Probably not quite yet, many men seemed to come to that near the last. “You’ll want to give your man something ‘gains’t his back,” he purred, “specially if you’re plannin’ to do it right.” Shaftoe reached behind himself for the table’s edge, settled his arse against it.

“Got that,” he said hoarsely. “What’s next?” But Jack was already removing the ruins of Shaftoe’s shirt, something he’d been longing to do for quite a while.

“This ain’t obligatory,” he said with a sly look upwards, “if you’re just going for the prick, y’know, in a hurry like. But we ain’t in so much hurry, an’ most men are pleased to be caressed... ” The deeply muscled chest was all that Jack’d been imagining; dusted with golden hairs, adorned with roseate nipples that were evincing Shaftoe’s interest in and of themselves. Shaftoe blinked slowly, smugly, at him. “An’ you’ll find... I b’lieve... that caressing a man here...” He leaned in, and nuzzled aside Shaftoe’s bright mess of hair, to lick his hottest, wettest, slickest possible lick into the curve of the neck and shoulder. Shaftoe made a strangled noise and shifted suddenly against the table. “And here... ” He put his mouth back to that warm flesh and tasted it, humming, in a meandering trail that ended at one of those lovely peaks. A bite made Shaftoe’s breath hitch, before Jack soothed the sting away with his tongue. He moved to the other side, suckled. Hard.

“You like doin’ that, to, to a man?” Shaftoe asked unevenly.

Jack let the flesh pop out of his mouth; “Not to your liking then?” He pulled away; Shaftoe raised his big warm hands to Jack’s shoulders.

“I like it fine,” he muttered, “I do; just -- it ain’t the same as like a woman, is it.”

Jack came completely upright, and composed his face. “It ain’t -- and it is, mate,” he said gravely. Shaftoe was, he hoped, feeling sorry he’d interrupted the proceedings, and perhaps he was; Jack felt a tightening in the grip upon him. “For don’t you feel this --” he flicked at the object in question with a thumbnail -- “along about here?” And Jack ran his fingertip down that tight belly, following the trail of golden hairs to Shaftoe’s waist. “An’ don’t you love the taste of a woman’s skin? Aye, it’s a lovely thing, ain’t it, a delight. And what’s more, I love the taste of a man’s skin just as well; the taste of you, Jack.”

*

And with that, Sparrow began to _taste._ Jack Shaftoe gripped the table-edge and gritted his teeth; this was more lessoning than he’d bargained for. It wasn’t that it felt bad, oh no; it felt glorious, that hot, sucking, clever mouth, covering every inch of his skin, running along his side, and -- ooh -- into his armpit, and Jack felt his arm fling up of its own accord; then moving lower, and -- and lower... No, that part was a bit of all right. But that Jack was expected to emulate this treatment on the person of the man who was thus assaulting him, that stuck in his craw, it did.

Sparrow smelled wrong, all wrong; of rum, tar, and smoke, and inescapably masculine. Those hands that were stroking him -- cleverly enough, Jack had to admit -- had nothing of softness, delicacy. They were hard, strong, and not any sweet girl's. But they demanded from Jack a response that his body was oddly eager to give.

He risked a look down. From this kindly angle, this Pirate Captain could have been a woman, with that thick tangled head of black hair. It seemed to Jack that his fingers were itching to sink themselves deep into the mass, so he did. It was wonderfully rich to the touch.

Sparrow was humming, Jack could feel the vibration on his skin. That pointed red tongue was licking, lapping, tasting him with every evidence of enjoyment; Jack wondered if the other man would taste anything like his smoky, tangy scent. Sparrow’s tongue was delving into his belly now, and he found himself tensing, holding his breath to see if that steady decline should continue. He felt long clever fingers dip under his waistband. Sparrow looked up, all dishevelled locks and big black eyes, and, and -- so delectable a mouth, so reddened and swollen from kissing and suckling at Jack’s person, that it made him haul the man to his feet. Sparrow regarded him, head cocked questioningly. Jack thrust a finger into the neck of Sparrow’s shirt, and flicked the laces open, and dragged it down over a pair of brown, sinewy shoulders, till Sparrow’s own breast was made bare, and his arms were pinioned both by the shirt’s neckhole, and by Jack’s gripping hands.

“Tell me if I’ve got this right, eh?” he muttered and pulled the man to himself to fasten his mouth on shining, satin skin. He had to do it quickly, before his common sense overrode his curiosity; but Jack Shaftoe’d always relied less on common sense than on his fast-flying wit.

He tasted the sugary residue of the drink, smoke, and under that a tang, a particular flavour that ought to have been distasteful. Sparrow purred, positively purred, and twisted in Jack’s grip to present him with just the right spot on his neck. This seemed to be along his jawline, and to run under that mass of hair to an ear that was mostly a holder for a thick row of gold hoops. Jack got the lobe between his teeth, and found all of Sparrow's wriggling, gasping weight plastered against his body -- and how did it happen that the other man's hips had gotten between his thighs? He had half a mind to stand up and put the pirate away from him. But it seemed as if the _other_ half of his mind was ruling his actions just now, and he put his mouth to Sparrow's burnt-sugar-colored chest, feeling under his lips the ridges of scars punctuating the smoothness of his skin. A nipple, he found, was indeed a nipple -- even if the breast it adorned was underlaid with tight hard muscle. And under that muscle, Jack Shaftoe's lips felt the beating of Jack Sparrow's heart.

Something stilled him then, his hands in place around Sparrow's arms. The warmth of Sparrow's body radiated against Jack's nose and cheeks. His lips rested lightly against the skin and Jack took in its scent with each indrawn breath.

"Reckon you've got it right," Sparrow muttered, and pushed himself away. Jack sat dumbstruck on the table-edge, and wondered at the taste of Jack Sparrow that lingered on his lips. He swiped at it, and then again more carefully, for the flavour was intriguing.

*

Oh, Jack Shaftoe had got it right, indeed. Jack's skin tingled at the remembrance of the gentle breath. His heart thumped -- along with other parts -- at the maze overlaying those blue eyes. He'd found his head bowing t'wards Shaftoe's, during that moment of contact, as if to nuzzle into the sweated depth of the thick barley-straw hair. What he hadn't expected -- not with the vigorous belligerence of the man -- was the gentleness of those big hands, nor the tenderness of those red lips (which Shaftoe's own tongue was exploring most deliciously). The sight made Jack's corpus demand that territory for itself. In fact, his own tongue and his yard were squabbling over it right now. He took a moment to school himself to patience. Shaftoe sprawled wide-legged, making Jack's hips yearn to be between those sleekly muscled thighs. Jack stepped up.

"Quick learner, you are," he muttered. Shaftoe tilted his head back and met his eye. His mouth twisted in a smirk that (Jack was sure) held a trace of startlement in it. Jack forestalled any further speech with a fingertip that trailed along the paths that he'd already mapped out with his mouth. He navigated by touch alone, consumed in the lambent azure of Jack Shaftoe's eyes. His fingers found the linen at Shaftoe's waist, tucked under it. Shaftoe sucked in a breath.

"Next lesson, Jack." Sparrow made short work of the tie, and flattened his palms against the hard hip-bones preparatory to pushing Shaftoe's trews down. He was going to indulge himself as much as he could possibly get away with, and his hands slid back and over a firm round arse as Shaftoe lifted himself to let the linen drop away. Jack looked down. "Christ," he husked, "Jack, you're a handsome man." He ran one hand down Shaftoe's blond stomach and the other up a blond thigh, and let both hands meet in the middle, so to speak. Oh, the heft and breadth, the silk, and the heat of Shaftoe's cock! Regardless of anything Shaftoe might be protesting, his yard was glad of Jack's attention.

"There's two ways," Jack said shakily, "lots of ways really -- but I wish to show you two..." He pulled a long, slow stroke and watched the way -- the gorgeous, unexpected way -- that Shaftoe's face registered his pleasure.

"A, ah -- choice, eh?" Shaftoe's voice was shakier than Jack's. Much. A second stroke made him voiceless.

"Mmm," Jack agreed, and dropped to his knees. "Stand up, Jack, for this demonstration." He put his hands to Shaftoe's hips and tugged him away from the table edge. He thought he'd stifled that whimper -- then he realised that it came from Shaftoe's throat, not his. Looking up showed him Jack Shaftoe looking down, chewing ferociously at his lip. "Just -- let me show you, all right?" Jack said, and he allowed himself the luxury of rubbing against lean, hard, deliciously-scented flesh before he opened his mouth and guided Shaftoe into it. There was a grunt above his head, and fingers wound themselves into his hair. Jack smirked around his mouthful and tugged on the hips, pulling Shaftoe's shaft, haha, deeper into his mouth till the broad cockhead touched his throat. There were several inches yet to go. Jack pushed back, letting the twitching yard slide partway out; then tugged forward again, and Shaftoe seemed to understand and moved on his own, stopping nicely to pull back and then move forward again. Fucking Jack's mouth. When next he met the back of Jack's throat Jack tightened his hold, would not let the man draw back; Shaftoe resisted and then emitted a sighing, whining note, as Jack opened his throat, took him in all the way, till his chin pressed against coarse curls, and that fabulous scent flooded his nostrils.

"Jesus," Shaftoe whispered. Jack growled behind the heated obstruction, causing Shaftoe to stiffen and push forward. "D'you want me to --" Shaftoe managed; Jack hummed _imm-hmm, mm-hmm,_ and pushed and tugged, and Shaftoe was moving now, thrusting again, and again, and Jack took him, took him, down his open throat -- and then stopped, pushing himself off of the man. Regretfully, it must be said. Shaftoe made a strangled noise. Jack leaned his forehead against those thighs and caught his breath.

"Jesus!" Shaftoe said and fell back against the table once more. Jack got himself to his feet, staggering just a little and smiled at the man who looked back at him all glaring, and shattered, and unfinished. "Christ, Jack, you -- how did you --"

[ On to part the third](http://community.livejournal.com/impofperversity/102915.html)


	3. impofperversity

The pirate leered and licked his lips. "That's what you might call irrumation, mate," he said smugly, "An' it's got its points aye? But that ain't what I'm hopin' for from you -- good but not th' full fare, if you follow me." Jack Shaftoe followed the pirate's beckoning hand right over to the cot, where he let Sparrow sit him down, let Sparrow urge him up, and back, and arrange his good self across the covers. Jack gripped the bedclothes on each side and steeled himself for -- he didn't know what. Some sort of onslaught, at any rate, under the guise of this "lessoning." Sparrow looked down on him, hands on gloating hips, lips swollen and red... and desire for Jack written unmistakably in his glittering black eyes, his darkly flushed neck, the long line of Sparrow's cock down his trowsered thigh.

Stealing through his mind came the notion that no woman, no matter how passionate, had ever been so very, frankly, undoubtedly, desirous of Jack's corpus for its own sake. Though many an actress had been glad to make financial arrangements with, as they often said, a handsome fellow, the handsomeness was always secondary to the finances. And here this chap was gagging for the chance to arrive at the same transaction -- from the other end, as it were, of that financial arrangement. Funny old world, eh?

Sparrow leaned down over him, setting his fists on each side of Jack's shoulders. That ridiculous hair swung down to trace across Jack's skin, bringing with it the smokey, spicy scent of him. "Next lesson, mate?" Sparrow murmured. Jack felt as if he were pressed flat under Sparrow's umbra -- a shadowy weight that held him, naked and helplessly anticipatory. He managed some insouciance with a head nod, and hoped that Sparrow was fooled by it. "Y'see, Jack, a chap can simply hold his mouth open an' let the other fellow fuck it, if'n he can get the hang of the throat business..." Jack gulped, both at the thought of the constricture deep in Sparrow's wicked mouth -- and at the thought of trying to emulate that in his own person. "But a mouth c'n do so much more, eh? Tongue, an' teeth, an' lips..."

Jack licked his lips, already feeling the press of the pirate's mouth on his. It hovered over him, swollen and red and utterly delectable. But it disappeared, and attached itself, instead, to Jack's stomach. The suddenness of it made him jump; but the heat of that suckling organ paralysed him. Lower it travelled, and lower yet, accompanied by scratching-tickling tangles of hair that spidered over his skin. And even though he knew, hoped, it was coming, Jack arched and bit back a howl when his yard felt the first gust of breath and then the velvet wrapping of Sparrow's tongue over the head. It swirled its way down, creating fire in the blue veins along the length of his cock, and insisted that he spread his thighs to admit its exploration around and about his balls. Jack did as it asked, and was rewarded for his acquiescence. It laved his scrotum and Sparrow sucked first one, than the other of those globes into his mouth. Long, clever hands slid along the length of him, a fingernail-- one, single, edge-- ran up the inside of a thigh, capturing all his attention for a moment, pulling it away from -- and then back to -- the heat in his yard. "...What?" he asked thickly.

"Are you paying attention, mate?" Sparrow repeated, glinting.

"A'course," Jack lied. Then there were teeth to pay attention to, repeating the pattern in company with Sparrow's tongue. Jack raised himself up on his elbows and saw lashes laying long and black over cheekbones made higher by the hollowing effect of suction. He looked down the length of Sparrow's naked back, and saw that the man's buttocks were clenching and releasing within the confines of his breeches. He let his head fall back, shutting his eyes against the sideways swing of the world. Jack Sparrow was getting, undeniably and unequivocally, as much as he gave. Something about that made him groan aloud, or perhaps it was the addition of strong suckling vacuum pulling blood into his already over-full prick, pulling him closer and closer to completion. He could feel Sparrow's cheeks tight about him, and his cockhead swelling impossibly more, constricted between the hard roof of Sparrow's mouth and his strong tongue --

"Of course, I don't expect you to be such an expert as I am, Jack. Not for your first time, but I 'spect you have the general principles now, eh?"

" _Fuck!_ "

"I'd like that, but I wasn't asking it of you in the first place, an' I won't hold you to it --"

Jack forced his eyes open and tried to focus on Sparrow in a way that would convey the depth of his rage. "You utter bastard!"

Sparrow cocked his head in enquiry "Why love, wasn't it to your liking?" He wasn't as cool as all that; his mouth fell loose and pouting, his chest heaved, and his breeches were tented and darkened with wet where his cock -- Jack could see the flaring shape of the head-- rubbed against it.

Jack squirmed on the bed before him, shameless as any nautch-girl. Indeed, the poignant ache of need would allow him to do no less. "You fuckin' stopped, oh Christ Jack, what --"

"I contracted no... completion with you, mate. I offered you some instruction," Sparrow said, but he said it unsteadily, and his teeth worried at his lip. Jack wanted to feel those teeth worrying at _him,_ dammit, and he said so, or something like it, and he thought he heard Sparrow tell him that he _could_ if only Jack would; and Jack would. Oh, he would, he swore it fervently, but finish me, Jack, finish me you bastard, before it kills me, it'll kill me, I swear. He could hear himself whining, and felt that he might be embarrassed about it all sometime in the future, but that was the least of his concerns just now.

*

He'd miscalculated, Jack Sparrow reckoned. The game was simply too much fun to play, and he'd let the man come too close, and now he himself was sucked into Shaftoe's vortex of need... Dear God, he was beautiful, all undone and pleading, his big hands gripping the sheets and his ferocious face staring up at Jack. And damn him and his sudden expletives, because ever since Shaftoe'd said "Fuck", Jack's mind had been consumed by the idea. That was a gorgeous yard laying on that gorgeous belly, broad and long, promising him that it would reach places within that would fire up into incandescent pleasure. And at the same time, that magnificent torso writhing in that way, thighs lolling open, was inviting -- nay, demanding -- the same. All Jack had to do now was bring Shaftoe to it. And thus far, Jack reminded himself, he'd brought Shaftoe to the brink of orgasm but not yet to any guarantee of reciprocation.

"Oh, Christ, Jack, I will," he said, "I want to badly, I can tell you. I want," he said, and leaned over the wild blue stare, "to taste your spunk. Only, you promised you'd put your mouth to me --"

"All right, all right!" Shaftoe gabbled. He sat up, hissing as his hard prick knocked against his thigh, scrabbled till Jack's buttons came loose from their holes, and yanked the canvas down. Jack felt a blow -- like a swipe from a bear's paw-- as Shaftoe's hand landed at his waist, and whirled him suddenly, and quite neatly, onto his back on the cot. Jack gaped upwards at the sudden reversal. "That mouth of yours," Shaftoe said indistinctly, and he came close -- and closer -- and bit at Jack's lip. Jack clenched the sheets in his turn, so as not to grab and pull, and Shaftoe's lips were not gentle now; and his hand came up and cupped Jack's jaw and pulled down; and oh _God,_ where had Shaftoe learned to kiss? And who would have thought that Shaftoe would kiss Jack -- kiss a man -- so heatedly, so fiercely, so bruisingly?

The rest of his body felt remarkably neglected. Shaftoe was kneeling high above him. There was -- a quick glance showed -- Shaftoe's thick cock hanging heavy between his thighs. And there was Jack's own, surely a worthy match, and far too much distance between them. There would be time, there would be a next time, Jack promised himself. But, right now -- Shaftoe pulled away suddenly, and glared at Jack once more. Jack bit back what he wanted to say, which was along the lines of "Please, oh please," and said instead; "Go on, do it," which might not have been all that different come to think of it. And amazingly, thankfully, Shaftoe went on and did it.

Shaftoe's mouth wasn't tender any longer. He nipped at Jack's throat, sucked fiercely to leave bruises. Jack gasped and hissed, and felt a weighty hand come down on a hip bone to hold him still. Shaftoe looked up for a moment, smirking and still astounded at the same time, an aphrodisiac combination, and then turned his attention back to Jack's corpus, and ooh, what had been gentle on his nipples now was not. Shaftoe swiped the sting away with his tongue, but immediately stung Jack once more, scraping at Jack's ribs with his sharp teeth. Jack waited in an agony to feel Shaftoe moving down, and yelped when he was bitten on one hip bone, and then, oh -- then -- the heat of his breath washed over Jack's prick.

*

If he didn't do't quick, he was sure, he'd never come to it at all. And then Jack Shaftoe would have to leave this shiply haven and its Captain. Having made that decision earlier to stop worrying about his shamelessness, he likewise decided to put aside for the moment this notion that -- as odd and unnatural a creature as Jack Sparrow was, Jack wanted more of... of...

Of the peculiar strength and sinew in this man's body, of his leaping, laughing grasp of pleasure, of his expressive voice and shockingly beautiful visage, the spice of his (utterly masculine) smell, his knowledgeable hands and mouth, and most of all...

Jack wanted more of Sparrow _wanting_ him more than any woman ever had done. He wanted more of Sparrow looking at him with lust and admiration, and he wanted more of Sparrow's hunger; and when Jack'd said "Fuck," Jack Sparrow's reply had been very intriguing indeed. And thus he found himself setting his tongue to the flesh of a man for the very first time. It wasn't bad, really -- silky to the lips, and dry -- save for the musky wetness coming from the slit, and Jack found that the flavor was not very objectionable at all, even with the faint ammoniac tang. And Sparrow groaned so wholeheartedly when Jack put tongue to that place and sucked away what humours there were -- causing more to well forth -- that he was minded to do it once more, just for the triumph of it. So he did, and this made the body under his hands writhe and tremble. Sparrow's voice shook as it muttered praise, and Jack felt that hearing that sound again, the oddly helpless note, was worth a little more effort. He opened his mouth wide -- wider -- and took the blood-engorged flesh into his mouth and sucked hard. Sparrow convulsed under his hands, shewing plainly that Jack was going the right way about things.

The cavilling little voice that kept saying _bad_ and _no man would_ and _humiliating_ was silenced now, possibly drowned in Jack's racketing blood. No humiliation, not when his actions made the other man near a puppet; when a swipe of the tongue evoked that long gasp, when this caress of the hand on velvety soft scrotum caused that shuddering all through long, fine legs, and made Jack Sparrow fall back off of his elbows and spread his thighs wide. Jack's prodding fingers were schooled to a wet cunny but found instead smooth soft skin behind Sparrow's balls -- that lead back to...

"Oh, Christ, mate!" Sparrow husked. Jack let Sparrow's cock out of his mouth, and wrapped his fingers around it as promissory; he had a question to ask.

"D'you like that as well?"

"Aye, indeed," Sparrow muttered. "Later, eh? Put your mouth, your mouth..."

Jack did so, but more deliberately than before. He remembered what Sparrow had just done to him; he remembered women who'd given him sweet service. Remembering this, he found himself in a peculiar sympathy with Sparrow, as if Jack's tongue that was lapping at the hot, swollen head, was lapping also at his very own, and he moaned for Sparrow's imagined pleasure -- which made Sparrow moan, in truth. His own cock wanted that constricture that Sparrow's throat had afforded him, and it seemed worthwhile to reproduce it for the shuddering, heaving man under his hands. Jack managed it for a moment before gagging and pulling away, and Sparrow drew a great breath and groaned loud and cried out his name for it, and Jack tried it once more.

"Jack, oh Jack, oh --" Sparrow's long fingers sped across Jack's face, buried themselves in his hair. Sparrow's legs wrapped themselves about Jack's back. No woman in Jack's recollection had ever given herself this way, so generously, and when Sparrow intimated that he would soon be offering a gift of a more emphatic nature, Jack had but a moment to decide if he would accept it or no; his indecision, 'twixt his triumph and his (odd how rapidly it was diminishing) repugnance was his undoing, and he received Sparrow's briny, bloodwarm tribute in his mouth. Nor was this the most surprising thing, but that Jack was so mindful of Sparrow's ecstatic paroxysms that he swallowed in order to stay with the pirate, and suffered the twining fingers tugging in his locks, and heard with pleasure the groaning heartfelt praise that Jack Sparrow gave him.

Sparrow wriggled out from under, still breathless and laughing, and pushed at Jack till he rolled onto his side. An arm thrust between his thighs and pulled him close and Sparrow nuzzled over his hips for a moment before engulfing Jack in heat and wet and suction. And, quite suddenly, Jack followed Jack into shouting bliss.

*

Mr Shaftoe, Jack Sparrow considered, had gotten himself a pretty good deal. He _seemed_ pleased, at least; he lay spreadeagled, flushed and panting, and didn't seem to mind Jack's weight upon him when he scrambled up; indeed, Shaftoe's arms came away from the bedclothes and around his back. Jack pressed his lips to the strongly-carved jaw, and Shaftoe turned and met them with an inquisitive and -- could it be -- eager? tongue. Jack tasted himself in Shaftoe, and knew quite well Shaftoe must taste himself in Jack's mouth. Lazy fingers slid across his skin, tracing the lines of scars and circled each knob of his spine, until Jack arched and purred. Shaftoe pulled back to look at him, half-lidded and dimpled.

"You've worked your fare, Mr Shaftoe," said Jack -- just to see what the man would do.

"How odd you should say that, Captain. I was just musing..."

"Yes?" Jack prompted, for the hand had stilled and he wanted it back again.

"That our transaction seems inconclusive."

"Why, sir, ain't you safe aboard? Although there's the matter of a chest to be dealt with." Jack pushed himself up and off, to sit beside Shaftoe. "If you honor me with the wherabouts, I'll send a couple of lads to fetch it."

"No-"

"No, Mr. Shaftoe?" Jack rushed on, "A little reflection would show you that your goods are perfectly safe. Here you are, and here will the chest be-- we can hardly sell it in Tortuga, after all. O'course if you wish you can go along, I s'pose they need your guidance to find the cache but I thought you di'nt want to let Roger know you was still about-"

"No, no!" Shaftoe said, half laughing. His big, warm hand came sliding around Jack's ribs. Jack turned his head, to look at the man, relaxed, smirking, positively _glowing,_ in his bed. Then Jack found himself sprawled under Shaftoe, the hot hard length of him. He wriggled delightedly and opened his mouth- only to find his words forestalled by a finger laid across his lips. His vision was filmed over by a curtain of thick bright hair. "Captain Sparrow," Shaftoe began, and then bit his lip. Eyes the color of a summer sky surveyed him up and down. "I reckon you..." Shaftoe said, and grinned. "Oh, shut up," he concluded, and began the first kiss.


End file.
